


A Choice

by carvedwhalebones (fuckyeahlucifersupernatural)



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 01:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14944758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/carvedwhalebones
Summary: Corvo Attano has been deemed a heretical threat and cannot resume his Lord Protector duties until proven otherwise. Teague Martin is more than willing to assist.





	A Choice

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Martin attempts to deprogram/convert Corvo from his heathen ways (and has fun doing it) and the Outsider feels the need to step in."

“Unfortunately, your faith has been put to question. There are those who suspect you’ve consorted with darker means to ensure Emily is returned to the throne. Fortunately, I am willing to prove to Dunwall that Corvo does adhere to the Strictures…”

It had been decreed that in order for Corvo to stand by Emily’s side, he must be properly assessed by the Abbey and free of all corruption.

The damning verdict sent Corvo here — in the belly of the Abbey — with a man he once thought dead. The space reminds him of Coldridge, the air smelling of wet stone and the copper tang of blood.  He’s stripped of his clothing, the chill of the room numbing the bottom of his feet and sending the hair on his arms on edge. 

The only light comes from the whale oil lamps on the wall, casting the room in strange shadows. Martin is the only splash of color in this grayed out space, his High Overseer jacket more of a carried bloodstain. He’s leaning against a table, motioning with his chin and eyes what laid above him. Thick shackles dangle nearby, fastened to the ceiling. Corvo casts a withering stare at the High Overseer, but raises his arms. 

Martin only smiles and moves forward. He adjusts Corvo’s wrists and carefully fastens them shut. 

“Know this, I am doing this for Emily and Emily alone. This is not me playing your little game,” Corvo reminds, teeth barred with each word. Corvo sorely regrets not checking the status of the man on Kingsparrow’s Island. If anyone could survive poison, of course it’d be him

The priest snorts in derision and gives a testing tug of the shackles, “You’ve been playing this game the moment you freed me in Holger’s Square.” Martin moves around him, a gloved finger grazing his rib cage and dragging its way to the middle of his back. “Too late for buyer’s remorse.” An involuntary shudder races through Corvo, sending the hair on his arms and legs to a stand. Martin doesn’t appear to notice. He busies himself massaging a knuckle into every ridge of his spine. 

“I always wondered how you resisted giving into Burrows in Coldridge,” Martin speaks, after a moment of silence. That has Corvo tensing and the priest chuckles, giving Corvo a pat. He returns to Corvo’s front, walking back to the table. 

“You have a choice, Corvo,” Martin continues, grabbing two items and turning to reveal them to him. Whips. Corvo responds with lips twisting in disapproval. The priest only smiles. One of the whips is a riding crop, impossible thin, save for the folded leather tip. The other is a cat o’ nine tails, the strands healthily thick. 

Corvo turns his head to the left, gesturing for the crop. Martin hums in approval, placing the other back on the table. He cradles the tip of the crop, slowly making his way back to Corvo. 

“High Overseer Wallace was the first to condone this,” Martin lectures, using the crop to gently encourage Corvo to spread his legs wider. It’s a light tap on the inside of one of his thighs, but it has Corvo, immediately, red. Martin doesn’t acknowledge, moving behind him. “I will admit, corporal punishment isn’t always effective. So I’m going to try something a bit different.” The crop presses into the back of his knees, urging them to unlock.

“I’ll only strike when you tell me to strike.” 

Corvo risks turning his head, shooting an incredulous look, “And if I don’t say strike?”

“We’ll both wait until you do.” 

Corvo scoffs, frowning at the wall before him.

Martin distracts Corvo, dragging the leather tip up the back of his thighs, Corvo rising on his tip toes with it. He shoots another look behind his shoulder. Martin ignores it. He opts for tracing the path he once made with his finger with the tip of the crop. It’s light enough to leave him shuddering, daring to admit that it feels pleasant.

 _“Strike,”_ Corvo blurts out, loud enough to drown his own thoughts. 

The tip of the crop leaves his spine and pain blooms on the meat of his backside. Corvo recoils, tense, teeth barred. Martin corrects his posture with the crop, reminding him to bend his knees. 

_“Strike.”_

The spot beneath the first hit blossoms with pain and Corvo seethes, rocking forward on his feet. There is a warmth spreading across his skin from the marked areas, feeling his pulse throb through his skin. Cool leather drags against the inside of his knees and Corvo bends them. 

_“Strike.”_

On the left cheek, now. This one is harder, a punched out exhale of air noisily leaving his mouth. It smarts, but the aftermath is a strange collection of brief pain and heated soreness. It’s not an unpleasant sensation. Just strange. Corvo mulls with the feeling. Suddenly he’s rising — a heady noise leaving his lips when leather is brushed against the new mark. Corvo scowls at the sound. 

_“Strike. Harder.”_

There is a pause on Martin’s part. He can hear the soft whistle of the leather as it makes its way down before impact. Corvo sucks in the air violently, body arching forward. Bright and sharp warmth overwhelms his backside, the pain seeming to rise after the fact. Corvo starts to squirm, clenching. Martin must have taken pity because he lays his gloved hand on the reddening mark, muffling the pain with the pressure of his palm. 

 _It feels good._ Corvo lets his eyes shudder to a close, hanging his head, as he feels his heartbeat begin to slow. 

_“Strike.”_

The hand leaves and the crop strikes the same spot. Corvo inhales, holding his breath, and exhales with a ragged groan. His hips are pushing upward, suddenly feeling far too warm in this room. He opens his eyes, slack jawed and breathing noisily through his mouth. His mind feels caught in a haze, thoughts at a pleasant standstill. He catches a glimpse of himself, noticing how favorably his body has been reacting to this. His cock bobs lightly in the air with his squirming, skin flushed a deep shade of pink.

“Strike. Lighter. Same place,” Corvo instructs, hoarsely. 

The crop strikes the same place and Corvo watches — entranced — as he drips onto the floor. 

"Doubt High Overseer Wallace was seeking out these results,” Martin murmurs behind his ear. He’s been caught. Embarrassment pours into his veins, body turning rigid. A gloved hand grazes against his sore backside, the cool leather forcing a noise out of Corvo’s mouth. “I’m not here to ridicule,” he tuts at the younger male, “relax.” He presses a finger into the streaks of red — first light, then growing in pressure. It leaves Corvo’s breathing laborious, daring to lean into the finger. How quick his embarrassment leaves him.

It’s gone and Corvo complains with a huff. 

Martin is leaving him, walking back towards the table and depositing the riding crop. There is a brief, irrational urge to beg, but Corvo smothers it. It’s tempting. Instead, he resorts to shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He can feel the skin on his backside grow taut with his movements, brief snippets of pain blissfully revisited. 

Martin returns to him, but faces his front without the crop. Instead, he presses his gloved palm against Corvo’s cock, now trapped between leather and Corvo’s abdomen. Corvo has the decency to look scandalized, but his body eagerly bucks into the hand. It’s not enough pressure. He rocks into Martin’s hand, trying to push his body weight forward, leaving streaks of precum with each jerky motion. 

“Would you like help?” the priest teases, after a moment, lips crooked into a grin. “You have a choice,” he reminds. 

Corvo glares, but he’s nodding his head. Martin’s fingers curl around Corvo as his other hand snakes behind him, fingers digging into his abused backside. It’s instant. He gives one thrust into the tightened space of Martin’s hand and he’s lost in his own pleasure, unashamedly moaning. He sags in his chains, panting, briefly cognizant of Martin’s hands leaving him. 

“You have a choice,” Martin starts, again, pulling him back to the present, “you can revoke The Outsider and stay in Emily’s company. After all, you were her Lord Protector before you…tumbled from grace. Or are you, now, unable to keep her safe on your own without that Mark?” 

Corvo only continues to regain his breath, gaze elsewhere. The Lord Protector catches the edges of a smile from Martin. He got his answer. 

“Regardless, the evidence here is damning,” Martin concludes, wiping his gloved hand off on Corvo’s thigh, “our work is far from done.”

**Author's Note:**

> _Love it? Hate it? Tell me in a review!_


End file.
